


The Voices In My Head

by Celana_Aldrete



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Feelings Realization, Fluff, Friendship, Hope, Love, Marriage, No Sex, No Smut, One Shot, Post-Battle of Winterfell, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Winterfell, just feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-03
Updated: 2019-05-03
Packaged: 2020-02-16 16:18:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18694990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Celana_Aldrete/pseuds/Celana_Aldrete
Summary: Winter has come and brought death with it. But where death is, there is life, too. And a familiar voice in Sansa's head that gives her hope and warmth.***A small episode after the Battle of Winterfell (SE08EP03). Spoiler ahead.





	The Voices In My Head

**Author's Note:**

> After my emotional breakdown during Episode 3 of Game of Thrones (LOL), I wanted to write a quick One-Shot, channeling the feelings around Sansa and Tyrion. I just wanted it to be fluffy and hopeful, a bit dark and cold, and I hope you like it as much as I did during writing. Enjoy! Every Kudo and Comment is very welcome! :)  
> (English is not my mothertongue, so please forgive my mistakes!)

She could still hear the screams. The cries of women, children and men. Men banging on the doors in search of protection from the inevitable. Women, tormented by undead, corpses half fallen to dust, ramming their claws into their legs. She could still hear the gruesome sound of flesh being torn from bones, she smelled the blood and foul stench of centuries mingling with the faint odor of extinguished candle wicks. She could almost taste it on the tongue, and it choked her.

Sansa opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. She couldn‘t remember falling asleep, but she sensed that she had intuitively held her breath, who knows for how long. Just so she didn‘t have to smell the dead in the dark again.

There was a hint of mist in front of her face as she inhaled and exhaled. The fire in the fireplace of her room had already burned down, and the cold of winter had begun to creep into the corners of the chamber. Although she was comfortably warm under her blankets and the big bearskin on her bed, she couldn‘t hide a shiver. She could feel the rumor in her stomach, partly from nausea, partly from hunger and thirst. She couldn‘t eat anything since she had come out of the crypt again. She knew that others who were tired and drained from the battle needed food more than she did. And it was a welcome excuse to hide that she didn‘t get a bite anyway. Too deep was the shock, too deep sat the memory of the piles of corpses that towered around them. She had already seen the dead on the battlefield of Winterfell, even witnessed her hated husband being mangled by his own dogs, but nothing had prepared her for what she would see in the courtyard of her home.

Fresh and long-dead bodies, bloody, muddy, covered with a thin layer of snow and a clanking silence. It stank unbearably, though the cold breeze that blew from the north scooped up fresh air, but it was as if the smell had settled in every fiber and pore. She had been barely washed after having been sent away by Jon after hours and hours of helping the wounded and bringing fresh water to the injured, to find at least a bit of sleep. The sun, blanching pale behind thick snow clouds, had already passed its zenith when she fell into bed. But sleep was out of the question. It smelled, it stank, and the dead screamed in her head. Still.

She couldn‘t imagine the horrors that had happened at the doors of the crypt. She could only guess, when she looked in the eyes of her brother, when she saw the wounds of her little sister, when she noticed the expressionless and tear-stained face of the Dragon Queen. She heard that Jorah Mormont had fallen, Daenerys's closest adviser, but she cried for him as if it had been her father. It was the first time that Sansa saw this tender, weak side of her. Jon, who for some reason had treated her so coolly and distantly before the battle, hugged her and it didn‘t look like he was going to let her go soon. Now that she saw that Daenerys was not as unapproachable as she pretended to be, it made her grow a plant of sympathy. But she didn‘t dare to give it more water and sunlight and make it grow. Not until all the questions in her mind had been answered. Not until all voices in her head were silent.

_Maybe we should have stayed married._

Yes, it was this very voice that pursued her. She leaned against the headboard of her bed and watched the glowing embers in the fireplace. She remembered every detail of this brief conversation, burned in her head like a piece of glowing ashes falling on cloth. She had wondered why Tyrion had uttered those words, and more than that, she had wondered how quickly she had had an answer.

_You were the best of them._

It was not a lie, but honestly, he hadn‘t had much competition either. She forbade herself to think of the nights she had experienced in these rooms, she suppressed the anger she felt at the thought of Robin Arryn, and much more she had to swallow the anger (and satisfaction) when she remembered Littlefinger's face. Husbands, Promise, _Love._ It meant nothing to her. At least that's what she thought.

With a sigh, she swung her legs out of the comforting warm bed and shuddered as she touched the icy stone floor. She reached for her cloak, which lay at the end of her bed, and slipped on a pair of leather shoes. She had to take a few steps, catch some fresh air, maybe drink a sip of water. Her head throbbed with a headache, as she noticed when she got up, and her knees felt strangely weak. Before she left, she put some logs in the fireplace, stoked the glow until little flames snaked along the dry pieces of wood, and then left her room.

Cool, stale air prevailed in the corridors, mixed with the smell of warm bodies. Many of the surviving men had fallen asleep on the spot, after they had chewed down a bite of bread and washed themselves in makeshift toilets. They had wrapped themselves in blankets and lay scattered on the floor of the corridors, snoring, sometimes whimpering. Sansa went cautiously forward in the pale glow of the torches on the walls to not accidentally step on someone. It had started to snow heavily during the day and Sansa had insisted that anyone who wanted could have a place in the castle. They had fanned all the fireplaces, gotten all the food and blankets they could find, and set up a dormitory in the Great Hall and in the library. Nobody should have to sleep in the open air today. And, sadly enough, the place in the castle was almost enough for all of them. There were few who had risen alive from the battlefield after the war. Way too few.

Sansa recognized Northeners, but also one or the other Dothraki and Unsullied. A man lay there, arm in arm with his wife, happy that they had found each other after the fight. Sansa smiled slightly as she brushed past them, trying not to wake them.

_It wouldn‘t work between us._

_Why not?_

The Dragon Queen was not just an excuse. It was the reason. Since her appearance in Winterfell, Sansa had tried to look in her cards. In spite of everything, Jon's loyalty to her remained unbroken, and Sansa had no strength to take on with him and Daenerys at the same time. But she knew what kind of support could help.

She gently pushed open the door into the open and stepped outside onto the still intact south rampart of the castle. The sun had set and dawn was over the North. The air was filled with snow and ice and the smell of charcoal lingered. In the light of some campfires, she still saw men working tirelessly on the southern plains. They brought wood and flammable things and piled them into square piles. Sansa swallowed hard.

Tomorrow, they would pay tribute to those who had fought bravely for the North and the Seven Kingdoms, scattering their ashes on the battlefield. Many houses had lost their last resistance here. Jorah Mormont. Lyanna Mormont. Eddison Tollett. Beric Dondarrion. Theon Greyjoy.

Sansa had not allowed herself to cry. She had to be strong, strong as a wolf who had to protect her pack. So many women now had to raise their children without their fathers, so many children would grow up without parental protection. They had given their lives to save them all. How could she not be strong for them?

 "So you cannot sleep either."

Sansa winced and turned her head to the door. For a dreadful moment, her heart stopped and she thought she saw the icy glow of blue eyes in the darkness, ready to strike and tear her throat with their bare teeth. But the moment passed. Instead, she looked into the gentle but bloodshot eyes of Tyrion Lannister.

"No," she replied curtly and turned her gaze back to the fields beyond the walls. He looked tired, as tired as she felt. It was not a physical fatigue, but rather as if her mind was in a state of exhaustion. As if it had stopped fighting.

"Forgive me for scaring you," Tyrion stood stiffly in the doorway and bowed his head, "I'll leave you alone."

"Please stay", Sansa said, looking at him. Her face lit up, but it was certainly too dark for Tyrion to see it.

"I just wanted to get some fresh air. Your company is always welcome to me."

Tyrion made a small sound of agreement, then closed the door behind him and walked to Sansa's side. He followed her gaze down to the working men who were unloading a cart full of branches.

"I really thought I would be one of those bodies being burned down there," Tyrion said after a few moments of silence. Sansa looked down at his curly hair in surprise.

"Or at least I thought I was ... lying there, somewhere. A dead body in Winterfell. I never thought to see the sunrise again."

"And yet you have," Sansa said softly but firmly, adding, "You were brave in the crypt. I don‘t know if I already thanked you for that."

"Don‘t," Tyrion replied quickly, looking up at her, "If anything, I have to thank you."

"Why?"

Tyrion's mouth twitched slightly and narrowed to a small smile.

"Don‘t you know that?"

Sansa indicated a shake of her head. Tyrion crossed his arms behind his back.

"Last time we saw each other you were ... a girl. Barely outgrown the childhood. And yet you always had a strong core somewhere that didn‘t let you down. However the circumstances may be. In the crypt, you revealed this core and truly demonstrated the strong woman you have become," Tyrion's eyebrow lifted as he looked up at her, "Seeing you fighting for your people is more motivating than you probably think. "

Sansa stifled a smile. She was flattered, she could barely hide it, and yet there was the memory of those last moments before plunging into the crowd of people and wights. That moment when their eyes met behind her father's tomb. The kiss that she still felt on the back of her hand, though it had barely been more than a breath.

"Without you, I wouldn‘t have made it," she said firmly, "You were one of the few down there with combat experience. And…"

Their eyes met again and Sansa felt her heart skip a beat. The shadow behind Tyrion's eyes softened slightly. But Sansa didn‘t know how to finish the sentence. But Tyrion seemed to understand.

"Let's agree that we helped each other. In spirit."

Sansa nodded and pressed her lips together. For a second, words wanted to come out of her mouth that she had forbidden herself to utter, but she swallowed them. She was still uncomfortable.

"I can ..." she said, clearing her throat, "I can‘t forget the men who knocked on the door of the crypt. I can ... I wonder ... "

"You were right not to do anything," Tyrion interrupted. "Everyone would have done the same. Opening the doors would have been too much of a danger for everyone. Don‘t blame yourself for that."

Sansa wished he was right. She craned her chin, brushing off the hint of weakness in her as if it'd never been there. At least that's what she talked herself into.

"I think I'm going back to my room," she said then, "It's too cold to think clearly."

"Yes, you're right," Tyrion said after a pause. "Maybe I'll take another sip of wine before I go to bed. For better sleep ... "

"It's a miracle that there's still wine left after you didn‘t use it so sparingly in the crypt," Sansa smirked and opened the door through which both of them had come. Tyrion shot her a look that was a mixture of amusement and anger.

"Believe me, my lady, that was the best time for anyone to start drinking."

Sansa chuckled, but then she fell silent again, especially because she didn’t wanted to wake any of the sleeping men. They made their way back to Sansa's chamber, always careful not to touch the bodies around them. There were moments where Sansa's imagination tried to trick her and make her believe that a cold, skeletonized hand was about to grab her leg, but the moments passed and there was silence over Winterfell again.

Sansa's heart made another uncomfortable leap in her chest as the door of her room appeared in her field of vision. She held her breath for a few seconds. She knew every inch of this room, even as a child she had liked to sneak in there, even if her mother had forbidden it. But now the big room, with its deep ceilings and dark corners, frightened her. She put her hand on the doorknob and turned to Tyrion.

"My lady," he said, bowing, "I wish you a good night."

Sansa nodded to him, but before he could take a few steps away, her fear increased.

"Tyrion."

He looked back at her, a little confused, but - a little pleased, too?

"Do you ... maybe ... I have wine in my room. It's wasted for me anyway, I hardly drink any. So…"

Tyrion's eyebrows contracted.

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

Sansa hesitated.

_Why not?_

"After all, you are ... you were my husband, back then. And it's just a nightcap."

Tyrion seemed to think, then made a soft sigh.

"Well. One glass. Besides, one half of the castle is half dead and the other dead, so ... who should see us."

The joke missed a bit, but Sansa nodded approvingly. She pushed open the door to her room, where there was a bit more warmth than before, and Tyrion followed at a distance. As the heavy wooden door swung shut behind him, Sansa felt something crawling up in her that she hadn‘t felt in a long time. Almost childlike feelings and memories of a night that seemed like a lifetime away. At that time she wore heavy silk and brockat instead of a coarse woolen dress and her hair was intricately braided and decorated. But now the years had slowly made her youthfulness disappear, and with it the naive dreams and desires that she had chased in the rooms of Winterfell. Everything was in front of her, the veil of beauty and elegance had disappeared. Winter was here, and death had come with it.

But there was life, too.

Sansa gestured to Tyrion to sit on one of the chairs at the end of the room, and took a heavy pitcher from a cupboard. A sweet-fermenting scent unfolded as she filled the dark red liquid into two cups and handed one to Tyrion before sitting down in a wooden chair across him. Tyrion looked thoughtfully into the wild boar cup, then toasted.

"To you, Lady of Winterfell."

Sansa smiled tightly.

"To life, Lord Tyrion."

"Hear, hear,“ Tyrion said, taking a sip of wine. Sansa followed suit. The woody and pungent taste of the wine flowed down her throat, creating a warmth in her stomach that was soothing. Maybe he was right - maybe right now was the right time to drink.

There was silence between them, interrupted only by the crackle of the wood in the fireplace. Sansa realized that she was getting a little sleepy, but every time the thought got stronger, something struck her. Too big was the fear of falling asleep and waking up alone in the dark.

"I meant what I said, by the way."

Sansa looked up. Tyrion was still gazing into his cup as if he found something in it.

_The truth they had to face._

"What?"

Sansa realized she was getting a little nervous.

"When I said that maybe we should have stayed married," Tyrion said and Sansa inhaled sharply.

"You've always been kind to me," she said, though it didn‘t sound like what she meant to say.

"Yes. Yes, I always felt that you deserve the best treatment, after all that has happened," he replied and his eyes looked up; he suddenly seemed very sad.

"I dreaded the day I was told you were dead. But this day didn‘t come. I have prayed and prayed, although my belief in the gods has long since disappeared. You have become more than I had ever dared to hope for, yet I could never stop thinking about what could have been."

Sansa looked at him for a long time before answering.

"I know what you mean," she said, "I don‘t want to say that it was not good that Joffrey was murdered, but in the end ... it was our end."

Tyrion nodded.

"Don‘t get me wrong, I'm glad it happened like it did, and you're back where you belong," Tyrion glanced around the room, "It was a long way to go."

"A very long way."

Tyrion rubbed his eyes.

"I'm talking so much nonsense, forgive me," he said. "I’m just tired."

Sansa nodded briefly.

"We are all tired."

Tyrion shot her a look that made Sansa swallow briefly. Quickly she put the cup back to her lips and took a sip of wine.

"Maybe I should go."

She heard him put his glass down on the table and felt her stomach contract uncomfortably. It was as if the darkness outside the candles and firelight suddenly wrapped itself around her, tighter than any corset she had ever worn. She looked up and into Tyrion's eyes, looking at her questioningly, confused, longing. It was the same look as in the crypt, she could almost feel it physically. It went through her, like an arrow fired straight at her heart. She breathed in quickly and vigorously.

"Please ... don‘t go."

The words came out as soon as she had exhaled. She felt a wave of relief wash over her, but at the same time a hand of ice lay around her heart, as if it didn‘t want to allow her to feel anything.

Tyrion looked at her silently for a long time, as if he had expected her to say it, but had not dared to hope.

"Milady, I don‘t know if that's wise."

Sansa's voice trembled as she spoke.

"Nothing ... nothing has to happen. I don‘t want to force you to do anything. I just don‘t want to be alone. "

It was more weakness than she had ever conceded in the presence of a human being. But Tyrion was different. She knew he knew what it looked like under her hard shell. He had looked deep into her soul, down there in the crypts, and she had allowed him to. This was not about loyalty, house and honor. But she had never conceded to allow closeness to someone. Her shell was thick, but it wasn‘t locked.

"Sansa ..."

It was the first time in a while that he only addressed her by her first name. She didn‘t answer, but put down her cup, got up and took off her cloak. She wore a tight, long linen shirt underneath that kept her warm in the night, yet she put her hand around her as if she were standing naked in front of him. In a way, she probably did. With a shy glance, she turned away from him, stripped off her shoes and slipped under the blanket of her bed, which had already lost its warmth. Tyrion watched her silently, his hands still around his cup. She couldn‘t read his expression and she didn’t dare to look at him directly. She rested her head on her feather pillow and stared at the ceiling.

The fire continued to crackle and Sansa barely dared to breathe. But at some point she heard footsteps on the floorboards and finally she felt Tyrion lie down on the bed next to her. She looked over at him; he had not taken off anything except his shoes. His gaze was straight ahead, at the blazing fire in the fireplace. Sansa could see the scar running across his face, even though his hair and beard covered most of his face.

"Do you remember ...," he said softly, "when I told you that I would only share your bed, if you want it too?"

Sansa blinked.

"Yes. On our wedding night."

Tyrion's mouth twitched slightly upwards.

"I haven‘t shared the bed with a woman since."

Sansa looked at him implausibly.

"Really? Why not?"

Tyrion sighed for a long moment, and as their eyes met, Sansa felt her heart hammering against her chest.

"You know why."

_You were the best of them._

Sansa turned to him and rested her head on his chest. It felt natural, though she had never done it before. She had never been so close to someone who really meant something to her. She felt Tyrion put his arm around her. She put her arm around him too, and as he lay his hand on hers, she felt goose bumps on her body. She listened to the rapid heartbeat in his chest and how it raised and lowered with his breathing.

"I still hear them, in my head."

He stroked her auburn hair and she felt that drowsiness was slowly overcoming her again.

"I know. I hear them too.“

"How do you make them disappear?"

She realized that he was hesitant and that she was slowly drowsing to sleep.

"I think of something beautiful."

She thought he was kissing her on the forehead, but maybe she had already dreamed that.


End file.
